Wraith
by Hermione Prime
Summary: AU. When Harry Potter is ruthlessly murdered by Voldemort, he did not expect to become a ghost. But what done is done. Deciding to take revenge on the one who ruined his life, Harry makes it his personal business to haunt the Dark Lord mercilessly. Forever.
1. When Death Calls

**Disclaimer: Relax... even if I do say Harry Potter is mine, no one will believe it for a second. **

**First chapter of a new story... please tell me what you think, whether you liked it or hated it. :)**

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_AU. When Bathilda Bagshot attacked them at Godric's Hollow, Nagini successfully kept Harry Potter prisoner until Voldemort arrived to kill him. But instead of dying, Harry finds himself as a ghost. Deciding to take revenge on the one who ruined his life, Harry makes it his personal business to haunt the Dark Lord mercilessly. Forever._

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"You are Potter?" Bathilda whispered.

Her voice came out unnaturally high, and reminded Harry rather uncannily of a snake, but he shoved _that_ thought to the back of his mind forcefully.

"Yes, I am."

She nodded slowly, solemnly, and offered him a stiff smile.

His scar chose that moment to act up, and Harry almost doubled over in pain as alien emotions flooded him, emotions he was sure did not belong to him. He felt a leap of joy, mixed with triumph.

He blushed extensively when Bathilda Bagshot looked at him strangely in what must have been concern.

"Over here," she hissed lowly, pointing to the corner of the room. Harry raised his wand and saw the outline of a clustered dressing table beneath the curtained window. "A sword, ruby on the hilt, belonged to Gryffindor…"

Harry edged between her and the unmade bed, his wand at the ready. The situation was unnerving, and he found himself unwilling to look away from her.

"Where is it?" he asked as he reached the dressing table, which was heaped high with what looked and smelled like dirty laundry.

"There," she said, gesturing at the shapeless mass.

And in the instant he glanced away, his eyes raking the tangled mess for a glistening blade, a handsome hilt, Bathilda made a choking sound. He saw her out of the corner of his eye; panic made him twist around and horror paralysed him as he saw the old body collapsing and the great viper pouring out from the place her neck had been.

The snake struck, fangs gleaming with venom, as he raised his wand. The force of the bite to his forearm sent the wand spinning up towards the ceiling. The lit tip of the wand, as it sailed in empty air, was extinguished, leaving Harry to fend for himself in utter darkness.

Before his eyes could adapt, a rustling on the floor caught his attention, and a powerful blow from the tail to his midriff knocked the breath out of him; he fell backwards onto the bed, snarling himself hopelessly in the sheets.

Rolling sideways, he narrowly avoided the snake's tail which thrashed down on the spot he had been earlier with a whiplash crack.

From downstairs, Harry heard Hermione call for him, and he could not get enough oxygen into his lungs to call back before a heavy, smooth _thing_ smashed him to the floor, making him sprain his ankle in the process, and slide over him, cold, muscular…

"No!" he gasped, pinned to the ground.

"Yes," whispered the voice in his mind. "Yesss… hold you… capture you… You will wait for me, Potter…"

He felt like someone had tipped a bucketful of ice into his stomach as he was hit by the realisation of the significance of the voice. Voldemort was on his way, and his familiar would keep Harry here until her master could deal personally with him.

"_Accio_… accio wand…" Harry panted.

But nothing happened, and his hands scrabbled desperately to try and force the snake from him as it coiled itself around his torso, squeezing the air from him, pressing the icy scales against his chest, a circle of ice that throbbed with life, inches from his own heart…

And all the while, he knew Voldemort was getting closer…

He had never been so terrified –

And Nagini released him.

A scream earsplittingly shrill and Harry was aware of Hermione standing in the doorway, and the snake thrown into relief by the landing light. It dove at Hermione, and she leapt aside with a startled shriek.

Her curses, aimed at the snake but mysteriously deflected, hit the curtained window, which shattered immediately.

A gust of wind blew into the room as Harry raised his arms in front of his face to protect his eyes from the shower of broken glass. He yelped as one particularly vicious shard dug itself in his neck and refused to come out.

In his daze, Harry looked around; Hermione was nowhere to be seen, and for a moment, he thought the worst had happened, but then there was a loud snap and a flash of red light and the serpent flew into the air, whacking Harry hard in the face as it went, coil after coil rising up to the ceiling.

His scar seared, and the agony flared across his whole forehead.

Harry opened his mouth, and yelled, as clearly as he could, "He's coming! _Hermione, he's coming!_"

As he yelled, the snake fell, hissing wildly. Everything was chaos. It smashed shelves from the wall and splintered china flew everywhere as Harry jumped over the bed, seizing the dark shape he knew to be Hermione…

She screeched as he pulled her back across the bed; the snake reared again. But time was passing too quickly – something worse, far worse, than the snake was coming, was perhaps already at the gate.

His head was going to split open from the pain.

"Apparate, Hermione, _apparate_ before _he_ gets here!"

She gave him a frightened glance and shut her eyes tightly, forehead wrinkled with concentration, lips rigid with fear. Harry made a grab for her hand for the side-along apparition at the same time Nagini slithered towards him. Merlin, he was going to get bitten…

His hand withdrew sharply, and at that instant, Hermione disappeared.

Hermione's eyes were open, wide and shocked as she was yanked away, hand still outstretched for Harry's…

Harry instinctively did the same, but his fingers curled around thin air.

Nagini had ceased her attacks, and she appeared abnormally pleased with herself for a snake. Curse words spilled from Harry's mouth in such a rich variety that it would have made a sailor blush.

Then the bedroom door was blast open, zooming off its hinges…

A figure loomed in the doorway, black robes swishing around his pale form, yew wand extended, crimson eyes glistening with _amusement_ as he observed Harry. And his breathing was slightly ragged, Harry noted, as though he had sprinted up the stairs.

The spidery fingers stroked the wood of the wand tenderly.

"Voldemort," Harry gulped.

"Indeed."

The Dark Lord moved forward elegantly, gliding past all the debris while Harry crouched in a defensive position on the bed. He felt as if he was a prey being circled by a predator who _knew_ he could not escape.

"Nagini," Voldemort hissed abruptly, "you did marvellously, my dear. Go back and order Wormtail to fetch you something to eat. Your job here is done –"

Harry shivered involuntarily at the endearment.

"– _I_ will take the boy in hand."

"Pity," Harry managed to drawl, struggling to keep the anxiety out of his voice, "I needn't have bothered you if you had arrived a few minutes later… Still, Nagini was a brilliant host, and I better not overstay my welcome –"

"Nonsense, Harry," Voldemort interrupted silkily. "Why are you leaving so soon, without gracing me with the pleasure of your presence? After all, Nagini had the chance to familiarise herself with you. It would be hardly fair if I did not…"

Harry stiffened, and abandoned all attempts at making light of the circumstances. "All right," he sneered. "What do you want?"

"You _know_ what I want, Harry."

"Oh, _right_, stupid question," Harry snapped. "You want to kill me; it's what you've been after since I was an infant."

"It sounds so undignified when you put it like that."

"It is undignified no matter _how_ you put it," Harry retorted.

"I suppose it is a matter of opinion," Voldemort remarked, tilting his head slightly. "Nevertheless, you are correct, Harry. I _do_ wish for your existence in this world to be wiped off. It is annoying for me, you see, rather like a smudge tainting a window."

So this was it.

The end.

Harry blinked back angry tears.

So this was how his life would end… At the hands of Lord Voldemort.

His parents had sacrificed themselves for him, just so that he could get eleven years of hellish life with everyone around him dying… Sirius, Cedric, even Professor Dumbledore was dead. Damn Voldemort to hell.

One tear dripped traitorously from beneath his eyelash.

A series of gleeful chuckles came from the general direction of the Dark Lord. "Crying, are we, Harry?" he laughed. "Where is your Gryffindor bravery, boy? Can you not smile in the face of death?"

Harry spat at him in response.

Without hesitation, Voldemort drove at him, grabbing his wrists ruthlessly and pinning them against the wall so that Harry was thrashing to get a good kick at the man with his legs. The Dark Lord used his free hand to grip Harry's neck.

He choked as the hand constricted.

"Spare your saliva," Voldemort said smoothly. "You may need them when you make your grand entrance at the door of heaven."

And then the cold hand left his neck to push up his chin.

Harry glared defiantly.

"Oh yes, look at me when you die," Voldemort said. "I want to see the light leave your green eyes, to see the fear in them when you realise you can never live up to the title of the saviour you think you are –"

"I do not fear death like you, Tom."

"Is that true? Or are you simply repeating a dead man's words?"

"Dead man…? You mean Professor Dumbledore! _How dare you?_ He is _three_ times the man you will ever be, you monster!" Harry looked daggers at Voldemort, even as his wrists felt like they were breaking from the harsh hold.

"I am not a man, Harry, I am immortal –"

"You are a stupid God Wannabe!"

"_Silence_...if you wish your limbs to remain intact before you die. Truth be told, I rather relish the idea of torturing and tearing every scream from you before murdering you, but I have waited for this moment for _years._"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Then what are you waiting for?"

_Oops, wrong thing to say…_

Voldemort smiled sinisterly and raised his wand. "Today, the knight in shining armour will die, and the pillars of Wizarding Britain shall crumple. Your little friends will be so _disheartened_."

"You cannot get rid of me, Voldemort," Harry hissed. "I'll be back no matter what you do." Outwardly, he was the picture of disobedience. Inwardly, he knew he was lying boldly through his teeth.

"Don't fret," the Dark Lord said cruelly. "You'll be joining your Mudblood mother and that black dog soon."

"Go to hell…"

"I wonder whether death is an eternal landscape of darkness… but I do not know… I have never died. Perhaps you can send me a postcard when you get there, Potter."

"Go to hell," Harry said again.

_"Avada Kedavra."_

A flash of green light.

Followed Voldemort's laughter ring from far away…

And Harry Potter succumbed to darkness…

—0O0—

Darkness surrounded him… Undying darkness stretching in all directions, shrouding him in a black cocoon… Harry had a pounding headache, threatening to split his head open… Dear Merlin, he could not escape pain even in death… He detested Voldemort…

Still, all the pain aside, it was peaceful. He could hear the _tick tock_ of clock far away. He could smell the night air. He… he could feel the sensation of breathing, the air cool against his throat. His lungs were drawing in air.

_Wait… what?_

_Could dead people breathe? Smell? Hear?_

He was dead… _wasn't_ he?

His eyelids jerked open, and he glanced around wildly.

He suddenly could _see_…

Darkness still cloaked him, but it was a different kind of darkness; as Harry adjusted his eyes to it, he could make out dark green curtains, a wardrobe, a dressing table, a mahogany desk littered with important-looking papers… and a bed that appeared like it was currently in use.

Were there bedrooms in heaven?

Why did this feel strangely earthly?

Harry stretched out a hand, only to get the biggest shock of his life when his skin was transparent. His eyes widened, and he glanced at the rest of his body.  
Shimmering.  
Transparent.  
Ghostly.

Shock knitted at his brow. His flesh was replaced by a gentle, soothing glow. Oh. God. Transparent arms dragged themselves across his chest for warmth. If he wasn't already dead, he suspected he would suffer a heart attack.

Was he to get no peace even in death? How was this even fair? How. Was. This. Bloody. _Fair?!_ When he died, he had no intention of coming back… At all.

And he knew he was not scared of death like Nearly Headless Nick was – so by all rights, _this_ should never have happened! He looked down, and saw, to his alarm, that his feet were not touching the floor but hovering about it.

Dear God…

He was a _bloody_ ghost.

He drifted upwards, floating close to the ceiling, hoping Hermione had reached safety, and wondering what the hell had attached his soul to this earth without allowing it to pass on. In his mind, he could envision the mocking voice of Snape saying, _"Potter is too restless to stay dead like he should."_

He was starting to believe that this was his torturous version of hell, to soar around in his ghostly form and observing humans go about their lives, watching Voldemort slowly taking over, and the new regime of darkness dawning upon them all… and being able to do nothing in stopping it.

He _felt_ alive – and free – and truly, the only thing that convinced him he was dead was, in fact, his ghostly body.

Harry glided across the room to the dressing table angrily, balled his silvery hand into a fist and plunged it into the mirror, as hard as he could manage, fully expecting his hand to go through. Instead, the mirror shattered piercingly, glass spilling everywhere. He let out a startled yell.

The figure in the bed, with lightning speed, sat up, yanked off his sheets and pushed himself off the bed… Gracefully crossing the room towards the source of the disturbance.

Red eyes narrowed dangerously at the broken mirror, wand already in his pale palm to begin casting curses at the intruder…

Oh, God, oh _no_… No, no, no… this _could not _be happening!

Lord Voldemort in a white nightdress was the very _last_ thing Harry wanted in his mind, but it was too late to shut his eyes now.

He snarled soundlessly as the Dark Lord strode towards him.

Harry felt angry, furious, adrenaline pulsating through his blood, and he felt unreasonably brave… after all… he could not possibly die a second time, could he? When Voldemort got close enough, Harry held a finger in the universal gesture of rudeness.

"Damn you, Voldemort," he said viciously.

The Dark Lord twisted around, and seemed to notice him for the first time. Chiselled jaws fell open in an expression of surprise Harry would never have imagined on Voldemort's face. The crimson eyes enlarged in rage as they scanned the iridescent shape.

"You," Voldemort hissed. "You again."

The frustration in his voice was apparent, and the situation would have been comical if Harry had not felt the same irritation. Nonetheless, he did not sneeze at the opportunity of taunting the dark wizard. "How does it feel, my Lord, to be thwarted yet again?" he asked sweetly.

"Just _what_ is going on?" the Dark Lord snapped. "What are you doing in my _bedroom_, Potter? Ever heard of the term 'privacy'? For that matter, _why_ are you here as a ghost?"

Harry glared.

Emerald met icy blue eyes, neither backing down.

"_You_ killed me," Harry said sharply. "I'm just as pleased with this new turn of events as you are. Be that as it may, I cannot say I _entirely_ unhappy that I managed to disrupt your sleep. It's the least I can do after you murdered my parents –"

"Listen, Potter," Voldemort growled, "unless you watch your tongue, you will soon pay for the consequences –"

"Actually," Harry interrupted, "_you_ listen to _me_. I am a _ghost_, and I'm not scared of what you may do to me. But I can assure you that as long as I am here, I am going to make your life _hell_; it's repayment for what you did to me."

The Dark Lord whipped his wand in front of the ghost's face threateningly.

"Don't think I won't curse you, Potter."

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	2. The Floating Undead

The Floating Undead

Harry felt marginally uneasy as he gazed at the wand trained unyieldingly on his face; he knew too well the cruelties the Dark Lord was capable of, and the punishments he doled out when vexed.

For a fraction of a second, the thought that perhaps testing his arch nemesis was not such a great idea crossed his mind, but Harry brushed it aside immediately. Voldemort had _murdered_ him. The Dark Lord had to be made to pay.

"You require a serious lesson on manners, Potter, ghost or not," the Dark Lord murmured menacingly. "I am tempted to teach you a lesson, preferably a memorable one at the opposite end of my wand."

He glared into those red eyes unflinchingly. "I was not aware your flimsy little curses worked on ghosts."

A pool of red quickly spilled into the irises as Voldemort surveyed the ghost intently, looking irate. The pale, slender fingers clenched tighter around the yew wand.

"It sounds as if you are issuing a challenge," he mused softly. "You have grown so _brave_, so insolent now that you believe you are protected from my wrath in your new body. Do you somehow think you have footing over me?"

Harry ignored the last question. "I've found that coming into contact with death does give a person new courage. I feel compelled to take risks I have not taken in my lifetime, if you understand me…"

The Dark Lord took a step forward, eyes flashing with promised retribution. "I cannot say I have much experience with cursing a ghost," he said lowly. "After all, I have never been haunted by one…"

Silence, ringing silence flooded the room.

"_However_," he continued, "I am willing to try with the Cruciatus Curse. I have never heard a ghost scream before, and I daresay it will be rather entertaining. For _me_, of course, not for you…" He gave a curt chuckle, foreboding enough to make the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand up.

Harry felt as though someone poured ice down his collar, and the carefree expression he wore faded from his features. "The second Unforgivable?" He shrugged, as if he couldn't care less. "Nothing I haven't endured before."

"Very well, since there are no objections from you…" Voldemort flicked his wrist lazily.  
"_Crucio_."

The red light streamed towards him, vibrating with powerful magic…

Harry mentally braced himself for the pain, shoulders stiff, hands clenched. But at the last possible moment, when the curse should have connected with his chest, it passed through his body like it wasn't there and hit the wall.

The wallpaper ripped, and splinters flew everywhere.

_Odd, very odd._

He was corporeal enough to smash glass but not corporeal enough to get cursed? It seemed almost too good to be true.

A smug grin weaved itself into his lips again, and the Dark Lord glowered at him, looking less enthusiastic.

"It seems like I am immune," Harry commented, fighting to keep the burble of glee out of his voice.

"Indeed," the Dark Lord said dangerously. "This situation is turning out to be worse than I initially thought."

"Not for me," Harry retorted cheerfully.

The expression of utter rage flickering on Voldemort's face was priceless, and Harry almost doubled over with uncontrollable laughter. Another ominous look of condescension and hatred was sent in his direction.

"You will do well to watch your tongue, Potter," Lord Voldemort hissed, spidery fingers picking up one of the glass shards that had been broken in the process of Harry punching the mirror. "The moment I figure out what is going on, I will have you writhing under my wand, begging for mercy."

The threat, daunting as it was, had its effects ruined by the delicate nightdress fluttering about the dark wizard in a manner that reminded Harry of a white moth.

The picture was simply _wrong_.

Never before had he envisioned Voldemort sleeping in a bed like a normal human being let alone sleeping in a _nightdress_. Harry had always naturally assumed that the Dark Lord did not need sleep.

He smirked wickedly to himself.

Although the man would never willingly admit it, Harry could tell, from the constant pacing and glares, that Voldemort was unusually tense about loosing control over Harry and having his young enemy exist as an untouchable ghost.

He was proud to claim that he was wrecking Voldemort's night magnificently.

"You are not taking this very well, my Lord," Harry remarked dryly. "Of course, you only have yourself to blame. If you had not killed me in cold blood, perhaps I would not be haunting you right now. As it is –"

"Do you _ever_ stop talking, Potter?"

"Yes," Harry replied indignantly, "just not when it is so clearly annoying you."

Voldemort twisted around, face contorted in fury. "You insolent, insufferable little brat, I should have Lucius flay you –"

Without another word, the yew wand flashed upwards, slicing through the air. Harry ducked instinctively, only to realise the wand was not targeting him.

The bookshelf behind him exploded into drifting smithereens, broken wood pieces flying through his transparent body. Books sailed viciously across the room, pages ripped and tattered. And one by one, they caught fire.

Harry watched in disbelief as the Dark Lord proceeded to destroy the portraits on the walls. Inhabitants, women and men, screamed in sheer terror as the frames tilted.

It was chaos. Yet Voldemort stood in the middle of it, eyes narrowed, using his magic to slash through the wallpaper, venting his temper on the bedroom.

The bed sheets whipped up into the air and were swiftly engulfed by a roaring flame.

Finally, when the Dark Lord stopped, the room was in a state of tragic disarray, unrecognisable from when Harry first saw it.

Voldemort snapped his fingers impatiently.

And shockingly… everything returned to normal; new sheets replaced old ones, walls mended themselves.

"God, _someone_ has anger issues," Harry muttered.

"Get out of my sight," Voldemort ordered coldly.

"That's very rude –"

"I _said_, get out of my sight!"

"Rudeness does not pay off," Harry said, "especially when you _need_ someone to cooperate. The Muggles have a saying: you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar."

The Dark Lord snarled, savagely, looking like he wished nothing more than to wrap his hands around Harry's neck and shake some respect into the boy. "Pray tell, _what_ do I need _you_ for?"

"You cannot harm me," Harry began scornfully, "and I am corporeal enough to lift things. Surely you have heard of the poltergeist that haunts Hogwarts. I might not be a poltergeist but imagine the spectacle if the ghost of deceased Harry Potter goes floating around and wrecking havoc…"

Despite his bravado, Harry could not suppress a shiver when the Dark Lord pinned him down like a butterfly with the pair of cold, stony eyes. They penetrated him with graceful ease, and Harry gulped.

"Is that a threat?"

The baritone voice, silky and charismatic, was perfectly pleasant. If was as though Voldemort was speaking to an old friend rather than an old enemy – but somehow it made it all the more dangerous.

"No," Harry said stubbornly.

"No?" The Dark Lord arched an eyebrow and smiled sweetly. "Then, Harry, tell me why it sounds so much like one."

To be honest, Harry had much preferred it when the man sounded outright fierce than when he behaved in such a predatory way.

The saccharine tone, so fake and patronising, did a fantastic job of both sickening and unseating him.

"I am waiting for an answer, boy."

Harry found himself marvelling at the twisted resemblance of the question to a demand that a professor might make in a classroom.

Perhaps Voldemort should have gotten a qualification as a teacher. With Voldemort's obsession about 'teaching lessons' and 'discipline' and 'fitting punishment', he should have fitted well in a classroom setting.

"It is not a threat," said Harry firmly, "merely an option I can take. From what I have heard, life for a ghost is extremely tedious. I think I can easily find some diversion in harassing your followers…"

Pale jaws grew rigid.

"I recommend you stay away from my servants."

"I may be the knight in shining armour, as you eloquently put it, but I am not particularly forgiving when it comes to your Death Eaters. I anticipate the day when I get my revenge on Bellatrix for murdering Sirius."

"Potter…" Voldemort warned.

"As for Snape, he is a bastard for betraying the man who trusted him. He needs to pay the consequences for that," Harry seethed. "I'd love to see his potions explode in his face and, hopefully, he can be maimed for life –"

The Dark Lord was outwardly smirking, apparently terribly amused by the remarks flying from his mouth.

"For a lamb serving the light, you are rather vindictive…" A ghost of a smile graced his colourless lips. "And your thoughts, full of suffering and retaliation, cannot possibly be the purest."

"Who said they were?" Harry bit back.

"Dumbledore, I believe."

"Well, I _can_ be nice to those who deserve it," he said, but his expression swiftly darkened. "Snape and Bellatrix, on the other hand, deserve no mercy. They are pure evil, evil _morons_ who –"

"Very biased, Potter, your hatred of them affects your judgement," the Dark Lord commented. "From what I know, Severus is adept at potions and few can rival his sharp intelligence. As for Bellatrix, although she is slightly on the insane side, she is an excellent duellist."

"And yet both of them fall short of your talents. Not only are you highly intelligent, enough to be considered a ruthless mastermind, but your magical power can wipe out hundreds," Harry concluded sarcastically. "Is this a subtle way of complimenting yourself, Voldemort?"

"I am not having this conversation with you, Potter, and nor do I need an analysis of my personality," Voldemort said indifferently. "You have wasted enough of my time. Now, make yourself scarce."

He snapped his fingers and immediately, the white nightdress was swapped with impeccable black robes.  
The yew wand was tucked quickly in his sleeve, smartly out of the way, and the Dark Lord make to exit the room without another glance at Harry.

"Where are you going?" Harry asked.

"To the library," was Voldemort's reply. "To research a way to get myself rid of the blasted spirit irking me every second since it appeared."

Harry listened carefully.

The echoes of the black boots eventually faded down the corridor, and only then did Harry realise he was utterly suicidal. Definitely suicidal. He had signed his own death warrant… Ironic, seeing as he was already dead.

Still, he had crossed the line.

Sparring verbally with the Dark Lord? Smashing his mirror? Insulting him and calling him names and challenging him? Threatening him? Angering him to the extent that he trashed his own bedroom?

Yep, he was certain that the moment Voldemort found out how to curse ghosts, he would be punished heavily and disciplined within an inch of his life before getting banished to hell or heaven or wherever the dead belonged.

Somehow, Harry could not bring himself to regret it.

It felt good… aggravating his murderer.

Now that Voldemort was busy, that left Harry free to explore his surroundings. He drifted from the bedroom, down a series of winding staircases, wandering without direction.

Along the way, he saw gleaming chandeliers, beautiful red carpets with gold rims, expensive ornaments, and necklaces with sapphire, ruby, emerald pendants on display…  
Once when Harry looked out a window, he saw white peacocks.

Somehow, the decorations did not strike him as being Voldemort's taste. The manor was too elaborate and flashy for the Dark Lord, almost as though the owner made it his first priority to show off his wealth to his guests.

As Harry neared a large room, which seemed to be the kitchen if the lovely smells wafting out were any indication, he heard a flood of tiny, squeaky voices.

Clangs of pots, pans and spoons could be heard.

Judging but the rich variety of fragrances, Harry suspected the owner was planning on dining on at least seven dishes for breakfast.

It did not surprise him. If the manor belonged to one of the Dark Lord's followers, then he had to be tripping over himself trying to please his lord.

Harry heard a sudden babble of speech amongst the little cooks.

House elves, it had to be…

He had only heard the squeaky pitch in Dobby before.

"Hurry up," one of them was saying frantically. "Only two more hours before dawn, and Master wish courses be ready! Mistress is beside herself with excitement. Says the supreme wizard on visiting!"

His suspicions were correct.

Only Voldemort could be the 'supreme wizard'.

"Prepare Young Master's favourite dish," another one shrieked. "Last time he refused to eat anything else!"

The voices talked above one another, in their haste and urgency.

"Oh, Master Malfoy shall be pleased! Good, good!"

Harry stiffened.

Master Malfoy? It certainly sounded like it if he hadn't heard wrong. He was at Malfoy manor. Goodness. What a coincidence!

He almost laughed in amusement.

What was a better place to begin causing supernatural trouble than at the Malfoys' glorious breakfast?

The prospect of smashing plates and emptying soup on the blonde hair of one particular albino ferret seemed exceptionally enticing. Maybe he could even spill something hard to get out on Voldemort's robes.

Best thing about it?

Lord Voldemort, most powerful dark wizard of all time, could not do anything about it.

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	3. Eggs and Snot

Eggs and Snot

Harry stared at his transparent hand thoughtfully, the gears in his mind whirling at an incredible speed. He absently drifted down until he was seated with his legs crossed on one of the long, winding banisters.

Being a ghost came with many welcome surprises, he decided.

Suddenly Harry wondered whether he had any talents other than floating around a room, smashing objects and taunting the most powerful Dark Lord of the century.

He had seen the other ghosts at Hogwarts turn themselves invisible before…

It would be a useful and bloody fantastic skill to possess. He could just imagine hurling books and raining prized artefacts on the Malfoy family while they stood in confusion. The idea was too enticing to pass up.

He might also be able to spy on the Dark Lord without the wretched man knowing. Passing valuable secrets on to the Order and revealing the schemes that Voldemort spent hours devising seemed like an excellent pastime.

It would be nice to continue supporting the war effort even though he was practically dead in all sense of the word. Harry smiled wickedly to himself.

Those grand plans could wait for later, after he had squeezed all the fun he could out of poor Lucius Malfoy, his wife and his son.

Harry was already making a mental list of the pranks he wished to pull on Draco Malfoy while he was there at their manor. All of them was sure to leave the Dark Lord on the warpath and angrier than he had ever been.

It was fortunate that Harry couldn't care less about how irked Lord Voldemort got…

Maybe if he annoyed the man enough, the Dark Lord would go and hang himself out of sheer frustration. That would be a major problem solved.  
But the more Harry thought about the possibility, the less likely it became. Oh well, one could always dream.

As much as he got a kick out of infuriating his nemesis, Harry was aware he could not overstep the boundaries too far. Voldemort was already desperate to get rid of him – and one trait Harry recognised in Slytherins was that they never stopped until they got what they wanted.

He sighed.

He had no idea what would happen to him once Voldemort figured out a way to banish him… Maybe being a ghost was better than being entirely dead…

Harry made it a rule in his life not to dwell too much on the tragedies, but in this instant, he could not help it. He buried his transparent head in his arms.

No amount of attempting to fool himself could hide the truth that he was dead. To make matters worse, Voldemort was still powerful and immortal and living.

As far as he could see, the Dark Lord, the Death Eaters and that pathetic excuse of a traitor, Snape, were going to rule Britain unless they were stopped.

And _he_, the _assumed_ saviour, was dead as a doornail.

How the Order would react to this slab of devastating news, Harry didn't know – and he made up his mind that he didn't _want_ to know.

Hermione must be in distress, beside herself with worry. She must be picturing all sorts of gory torture happening to him. He wished he could comfort her, tell her everything was fine and he had died a painless death…

No, no way, telling Hermione that he had died could only possibly make things worse.  
Everything was definitely _not_ fine.

Now, more than ever, Harry hoped Ron would come back from his sulk and provide Hermione with the security that he could not. Sure, the young Weasley could be a right git sometimes, leaving them, but he was glad Ron was not there at Godric's Hollow to meet Nagini.

His silvery fists clenched tightly.

The Dark Lord, that emotionless monster of a psychopath, deserved death. No, he deserved to burn in the fires of hell and horrific things far beyond the creativity Harry's righteously livid mind could conjure up.

Harry wanted to tear the man apart with his bare hands and plunge his nails into the chest to try and fish out a human heart. Just to see if the murderer was a functioning human underneath that serpentine face.

Knowing Voldemort, there would not be a heart. Or even if there was, it was bound to be cold, hard and lifeless.

And after that, he could seek out Severus Snape, and rip his face off the neck. It would be nice to know whether he permanently wore a mask or he actually owned real emotions.  
_That backstabbing, venomous, unfeeling viper!_

When Dumbledore had toppled from the Astronomy Tower, Harry had felt rage like nothing he had ever known grip him. In that moment, he truly believed he could kill Snape.

Later, he had berated himself for getting such dangerous notions. Dumbledore would be ashamed. He was not like _them_; he would not lower himself to _their_ moral standard.

Harry stopped his flow of thoughts forcefully. _Do not waste time on the past_, he told himself, _concentrate on the present_.

The present, however, was the upcoming prank at breakfast.

It would be another few hours before anyone was awake and walking. Harry nodded to himself. That gave him enough time to test himself for any abilities of invisibility.

—0O0—

Narcissa Malfoy expended a grand total of two painstaking hours in her bedroom.

Half was spent in front of the flooding wardrobe, a frown mangling her features as she attempted to choose the most appropriate outfit as the mother of her family. The rest was devoted to her mirror which gushed out compliments as she dabbed her face with makeup.

Although it was true that Narcissa was a woman of pride and who minded her appearance, for she was rarely seen without her striking robes, it was also true that she did not care to waste too much time admiring her own reflection.

She remembered herself as a young girl, frolicking with red lipsticks, and begging to go dancing amongst the young men at balls.

She had always been the glowing beauty of the family, though Bella had her own dark splendour. It was both a blessing and a pity that she no longer owned such youthful tastes.

Narcissa allowed herself a small smile.

It amused her to see that she had passed her genes on to her son, who hardly noticed any girls in favour of being in awe of his own aristocratic features, pale hair and handsomeness.

Draco made it a personal rule never to leave the house until his hair was all smoothly in place.

Nevertheless, she knew it was necessary for all of them to play the part of a fetching household.

She had lectured Draco to be on his best behaviour until he looked like he wanted to drown himself if only to hearing her voice.

As for Lucius, he had worked the elves hard like the slaves they were. When Narcissa checked the kitchens this morning, the pathetic creatures had seemed like they were on the verge of collapsing.

At least all the dishes were ready.

She hoped, with all her heart, that their efforts to impress had not been wasted. She hoped the Dark Lord would return the family to its former glory.

Merlin, they _needed_ the Dark Lord's approval. Especially after Draco's failure to kill Dumbledore the year before.

Everything was moving along smoothly.

Narcissa mentally ticked off a list.

The table had to be set with their best silverware. _Done_.

There had to be at least thirteen types of tea available on the table, in case the Dark Lord liked only one style. _Done_.

Narcissa breathed a sigh of relief. If their breakfast was flawless, the Dark Lord would be pleased, and consequently, Lucius would also be in high spirits. _So far so good_.

**... **

Narcissa soon discovered, to her horror, that what had started as a pleasant breakfast soon spiralled out of control with shockingly ghastly accidents that successfully ruined both the meal and her appetite.

Her sister was dining with them.

And while Narcissa was only too aware of Bellatrix leaning towards insanity, she had thought that the presence of the Dark Lord would keep Bellatrix in line. After all, her sister _worshipped_ the ground he stood on.

The female Malfoy should have known better than to trust the deranged woman. It all began with her.

Bellatrix was known by her relatives for her wild and daring moves spurred by her infatuations. And, as everyone knew, she had been obsessed with the Dark Lord for as long as anyone could remember.

This morning, Bellatrix had attempted to engage the Dark Lord in a hearty conversation about the admirable art of torturing Mudblood children. Her hooded eyes were shining with enthusiasm, and some of her comments bordered on flirtatious.

The Dark Lord seemed to share neither her gusto nor her romantic affections. He stirred his soup lazily, never looking at the woman while she blathered on. Clearly the passion was not mutual.

Narcissa was not surprised in the least; the Dark Lord did not _do_ love – if Bellatrix had any hopes of the unrequited love evolving into something more then she was a fool.

At best he humoured her with curt replies, but the responses were often laced with mockery, coldness, a bored expression or silence.

Bellatrix did not seem to notice the sarcasm directed at her, or perhaps she was choosing to ignore it. She had always been thick skinned. And too much so. On the other hand, Bella looked increasingly frustrated at the silence and lack of reaction.

Narcissa should have realised something was wrong and done something right then and there. She could not believe what Bellatrix did next. Her sister was _too_ desperate for _his_ attention.

Desperation could be a dangerous thing to have.

"My Lord," Bellatrix said delicately. "Do you fancy some eggs?"

Without waiting for a reply, she delicately raised a bowl of whites and yolks, and made as if to spoon one onto the silver plate in front of the Dark Lord.

It was a bold action, but something worse soon followed.

Narcissa could only watch in silent dismay, her heart caught in her mouth, as Bellatrix's hand suddenly changed direction for reasons unknown and emptied, _dumped_, all the contents onto Voldemort's robed lap.

The black cloth was instantly tainted with the oily yellow running down the fabric. Narcissa almost choked in alarm. It looked _wet_, and _sticky_, and wholly inappropriate for the Dark Lord to be donning on his legs.

It took a while for her mind to fully accept the picture. Even the Dark Lord was staring, slightly in disbelief. His fork was still clenched in his hand, and he made no move to stand up.

The aura in the room became stiffening, dangerous.

His crimson eyes narrowed, he turned to face a paling Bellatrix, and he _smiled_.

It was more of a flash of teeth than a genuine tilt of the lips, and Narcissa could only suppress a shiver. She hoped dearly the Dark Lord would not feed Bellatrix a dose of the Cruciatus Curse.

Screaming always would spoiled breakfast.

"I do hope you will pay for my robes," Voldemort joked, tone light. However there was an ominous edge to his voice. "Or better yet… keep your hands to yourself next time we dine together."

Bellatrix flushed an ugly red colour that did not flatter her sharp facial features. "Of course, my Lord," she answered, like a beaten dog. "I apologise for the eggs. Here, allow me…"

She waved her wand, and the robes became sparkling clean. The Dark Lord, for his own reasons, chose to snub her rather than punish her.

And the consequences, despite the thick tension, were narrowly avoided. Narcissa felt her pounding heart finally slow down to its normal speed.

But the worst was not over yet.

Their breakfast only plummeted down after that.

The _next_ accident involved Draco himself.

Her son had gotten a scoop of homemade raspberry of the highest quality and was spreading it evenly on his bread when disaster struck again.

The way he placed his lips around the bread carefully indicated he was planning on nibbling, but Narcissa could hardly believe her eyes when the bread seemed to develop a life of its own.

It squeezed itself into Draco's mouth, whole, rather forcefully.

Draco's eyes bulged in shock, and he spluttered unceremoniously, drawing the attention of the entire table. Lucius was glaring disapprovingly at his son, and Bellatrix looked like she had only just recovered from her own humiliation.

The Dark Lord had a positively murderous expression as he scanned the room, eyes seeming to be seeking something out.

Draco choked, becoming teary-eyed, and his tongue came flopping out. He suddenly blew hard, and the food, came flying out from his nose. It looked disgusting, and Narcissa found herself cringing.

Yellowy green slime covered the bread, and she had a faint idea that it was snot.

It was a nasty coincidence that the bread just _happened_ to land with a revolting plop in Lucius's bowl of milk.

The head of the Malfoy family clenched his napkin tightly, and pushed his bowl aside, not able to bring himself to look at the mess.

"I apologise, my Lord," he said rigidly, "for the poor behaviour coming from my son."

Draco immediately heated up like a furnace, skin turning rapidly pink. Narcissa felt sorry for her boy. He averted eye contact with his father. "It wasn't my fault," he muttered lowly. "The food shoved itself in my mouth."

Narcissa was quite sure nobody had heard apart from herself, but why did the Dark Lord glance sharply at Draco from the opposite side of the dining table?

As it turned out, the Dark Lord must have gotten rather tired of the meal.

Because he stood in the middle of breakfast, expression lethal, voice stiff with irritation, and pardoned himself for the sake of politeness. And before he left, he aimed a vicious glare at the empty air.

Narcissa wanted to weep.

She had worked so hard for this.


	4. Grave' Mistake

A/N: I have to thank all of you for your wonderful reviews! I swear, I've got to have the most generous reviewers ever! Please keep up your great work.  
On another note, Mudblood Slytherin and Proud asked me which of my stories I'll be focusing on. To be honest, I really don't know. It depends on my mood, probably. I'm currently quite interested in Wraith, The Imperial Courtier and _maybe _Black Coat. Inspiration might hit sometime in the next few weeks for Silhouette in Shadows. But Swastika Ashes, unfortunately, might not be updated for the moment.  
It is **important** that if you favour any stories in particular you let me know on the **poll** on my profile or in a **review**. I always take my reader's opinion's into account. :) Anyways, let's get on with the story!

'Grave' Mistake

Behind the closed doors of one of the unused guest bedrooms in Malfoy Manor was a bed, laden with a soft duvet and plump pillows. If anyone happened to chance a peek inside, they should have seen no sign of human presence.

The truth, however, was that an invisible ghost was currently occupying the bed, resting beneath the eiderdown, tired from his accomplishment in the morning at breakfast. Harry snuffled lightly into the sheets, breathing in the rose fragrance from the air freshener.

His day had started off brilliantly.

Harry grinned into his pillow with satisfaction.

It couldn't have been better.

He congratulated himself on a prank well pulled. The best part was that no one, no one with the exception of the Dark Lord, had suspected that a ghost was at work. Narcissa Malfoy had looked so bewildered, so distraught.

Draco had made a right fool of himself and was probably being reprimanded by his father this very instant for his atrocious lack of table manners. He had embarrassed his entire family, and Lucius Malfoy wasn't famous for being particularly understanding.

If it had been anyone else, Harry might have been able to spare a drop of sympathy but the little albino ferret deserved it.

As for Bellatrix, her blatant advances on Voldemort set Harry attempting to stifle his gags. She was positively revolting in her adoration, and her comments like 'my Lord, you are _so_ tasteful; I too have a fondness for English tea' only served to make Harry feel nauseous.

At least the Dark Lord had responded with indifference. Harry thought he might have puked and consequently given himself away if the man _encouraged_ her affections.

Besides, Harry did not get why anyone, sane or not, would _want_ the _Dark Lord_.

He was the same person who tortured, maimed, killed without a blink of the eye and for no apparent reason. He was ruthless, cruel, and hateful and had probably fed Bellatrix countless doses of the Cruciatus for minor failures…

Not to mention, he had serpentine facial features, red eyes, skeletal fingers and snakelike slits for a nose; not exactly what Harry would regard as the physically attractive type of wizards.

Bellatrix Lestrange definitely had strange tastes in the opposite gender…

_Argh_ – Harry shuddered involuntarily.

Still her unrequited love made it all the more enjoyable for Harry when she disgraced herself in front of her obsession.

It was her own fault for trying to butter Voldemort up, for offering the eggs in the first place; all Harry had done was steer the plate in the other direction and tilt it dangerously close to Voldemort. After that, the eggs had given in to gravity and simply slid down smoothly into that lap.

And – here Harry had to clasp both hands over his mouth to restrain a bout of wild laughter – the Dark Lord's expression! His _expression_! It was absolutely priceless. Tightened in cold fury and disbelief as though he couldn't believe the eggs had the daring to touch him.

Harry replayed the scene over and over again in his mind. If only he could share it with Hermione and Ron... It would lighten their moods.

Of course, the snot was the icing on the cake.

Judging by Lucius's disgust, Narcissa's horror, Bellatrix's scorn, followed by the exit of the Dark Lord, Harry felt he could confidently say the occupants of the breakfast table had all lost their appetites.

Harry chuckled softly into his pillow.

Who knew tormenting Voldemort could turn out to be such fun?

He rolled over onto his side, lips curving into a wicked grin, and slept.

**...**

Harry woke up to the nasty feeling of an invisible force wrenching his arms out of their sockets. An unpleasant dizziness struck him as he tried to sit up.

His left arm flew up of its own accord, in the direction of the door, and Harry tumbled after it from the bed onto the floor.

His mind had hardly registered what was happening when he was dragged across the carpet and out of the room by his arm.

Another unseen force joined in, propelling him forward, so that Harry found himself speeding past rooms and staircases until the door to a lone bedroom abruptly whipped open and he was dumped unceremoniously inside with a startled yelp.

He landed in a heap.

"Interesting," a voice mused darkly. "So the spell for summoning disobedient ghosts worked… Pity the book states nothing on the subject of _banishing_ unwanted spirits. I do hope you enjoyed the experience of being summoned, Potter."

He looked up furiously, saw the pair of crimson eyes that were quickly becoming familiar, and made a rude gesture with his hand. "I was sleeping," he bit out. "Knowing you, you wouldn't care in the least. You don't care about anything except for yourself."

"You are quite wrong there, Harry," Voldemort replied silkily, smiling. Except, in Harry's opinion, it looked more like he was baring his teeth. "I care rather a lot about you and your actions…"

He was sitting elegantly on the stiff-backed chair, eyes flickering lazily over the top of the tattered tome he was fingering. Harry shot one dirty look at the Dark Lord and pushed himself off the ground.

"You are under the incorrect impression that you are free to do as you wish," the Dark Lord continued coldly. "I confess myself disappointed, Harry. I assumed you would be clever enough not to cross me."

"_I_ assumed _you_ would be clever enough not to hope for peace while the victim of your murder is still around," Harry retorted. "I don't suppose you've ever considered that I might want vengeance, since you robbed me of life and all?"

"Your life is not worth a sickle."

"And yet you swapped eleven years stuck between the world of dead and living for an attempt to kill me on Halloween night."

The icy red eyes snapped up and the air in the room crackled ominously with angry magic. The Dark Lord swept aside his black robes, out from his way, and with rigid movements, he stood, eyes impaling Harry.

_Danger, danger…_

Voldemort was angry.

Harry felt tendrils of dark power brush against him, chafing his ghostly skin, but he resisted the urge to shudder and tilted his chin up defiantly.

He would never let the monstrous man best him, never.

For a moment, their hatred for each other was beautifully matched. It sizzled like electricity through the atmosphere. The Dark Lord had loathed him since he was an infant, and he had loathed the Dark Lord since the man began making a disaster out of his life.

"Know your place, boy," he hissed.

"I already do," Harry shot back.

"You are an unwelcome guest at my house," Voldemort resumed, plunging his gaze like a sword through Harry repeatedly. If he was a Basilisk, Harry would have been dead ten times over. "Thus, you will follow my rules."

"Damn your rules to hell."

"You shall cease tormenting my followers and entertaining yourself at their expense, especially the Malfoys," Voldemort ordered. "When I hold my meetings, I expect disappearance on your part. If you dare to disrupt –"

Harry sneered. "Or what? You'll cast another useless Cruciatus Curse on me?"

The Dark Lord strode towards him faster than a snake could strike, features frozen in a livid expression. "Or you will learn never to test my patience."

"That's rich, coming from you, my Lord," Harry said sarcastically. "If you had been patient enough to wait another day to kill me then maybe you would not have dug yourself into this hole."

If it was even humanly possible, Voldemort looked distinctly angrier.

"Pestered by a ghost and able to do nothing about it… How the mighty have fallen… Though, admittedly, I feel better now that you've gotten your just desserts."

"You are more annoying in death than you ever were in life, Potter," Voldemort said. "As I have said before and will say again, you have irked me for too long and too many times; you _will_ pay."

"_I_ will pay?" Harry snarled. "After _you_ murdered my parents? After _you_ obliterated all chances of me having a happy childhood and condemned to life with the Dursleys? I hear from strangers about my resemblances to my father and how I have my mother's eyes. Do you know how that _feels_ like? Not even remembering your parents?"

The Dark Lord barely batted an eyelash at his outburst.

Somehow it made him madder.

"Of course," Harry continued viciously, "parents mean nothing to _you_. Who _cares_ if one of them died while giving birth to you, Tom? In fact, the father is such a mean git that you might as well go back and finish him off yourself! Oh, and your filthy Muggle grandparents got in the way, so they also deserve to die."

"Lovely to see you know my sentiments so well," Voldemort said dryly. "Has Dumbledore been sharing the history of Tom Marvolo Riddle with you?"

Harry ignored him and ploughed on. "Who tried to assassinate me while riding on the back of Quirrell in my first year? Who tried to kill me with a Basilisk in my second year? Who tried yet again but only succeeded in killing Cedric in my fourth year? Who tried to kill me for the fourth time in my fifth year?"

Harry's anger seemed to soothe Voldemort, who cracked a smirk. "Me," he said, "obviously."

Harry glared at him. "You went into hiding in my fifth year so that Umbridge, the pink toad, and the Ministry refused to see your existence."

He waved his left hand in front of Voldemort furiously. "Here are the marks she left as a souvenir."

To his surprise, the Dark Lord raked his eyes across the scratches blemishing the ghostly flesh, studying the words. There was a second of silence as Voldemort took it in.

And then… he smiled marginally.

"Fascinating," he observed. "The Ministry dares to touch their beloved little saviour with illegal blood quills… and your professor forced you to write such _amusing_ words on your own hand… 'I must not tell lies'."

"I –"

"The words do not suit you. If I were her, I would have gone for something more along the lines of: 'I must abandon my saving people thing'. "

Harry was more stunned than he'd like to admit. This almost phrased exactly the way Hermione had put it. "You can shut –"

"Are you really such a fool as to never have thought of applying a potion to prevent scarring?" Voldemort tutted mockingly. "Such a fool as to allow Umbridge, that pathetic little Ministry lapdog, bully you?"

"I really –"

"And for that matter, why had Dumbledore done nothing about it, I wonder?"

"Don't try to change the subject!" Harry spat ferociously. "You know nothing about it!"

"On the contrary," Voldemort said pleasantly, "I am acquainted with your Professor Dolores Umbridge. She is rather vehement regarding Death Eaters sabotaging the Ministry. A very irritating woman who is too overbearing for her own good. It is fortunate that she is incompetent."

"And it is unfortunate that you are," Harry growled. "So competent that you managed to disintegrate my whole life. It wasn't much of a life to begin with, but murdering my parents wasn't enough for you."

"Because of you, Potter, and your Mudblood mother, I spent eleven years of pain drifting in limbo… In your first year, you continued to cause trouble by taking the Philosopher's Stone from me and postponing my rising."

Red eyes penetrated the side of Harry's skull as Voldemort stared him down.

"In your second year you once again delayed my life, slaughtering the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets," the Dark Lord continued smoothly, almost as though he was reciting. "She was a beloved pet –"

"It was _female_?" Harry gaped.

"And you destroyed my diary."

"Yes," Harry derided. "Your precious Horcrux. One down, less to go."

Ringing silence…

It was then that Harry realised his grave mistake. Voldemort wasn't supposed to know they were hunting Horcruxes. _Oh God, oh God, oh God._

"Pardon me, Potter?" Voldemort asked dangerously. "Did I hear the word 'Horcrux'?"

"No." He gulped.

"You will tell me… _now_."

"No thanks."

"In your sixth year, Dumbledore showed you my Horcruxes, my childhood, my history, didn't he? Was he preparing for his death? Did he plan for you to take over from him? Are you his successor, Harry?"

"Dumbledore did not plan to die!" Harry yelled, upset. "Snape _killed_ him!"

"If so, I wonder why he recruited Slughorn?" the Dark Lord mused, snubbing him. "If I remember correctly, Slughorn was my Potions Professor while I was at Hogwarts. A rather eager man… who collects valuable things. And he –"

Suddenly, the Dark Lord stopped in midsentence, face lightening with realisation.

Harry could see the direction Voldemort's thoughts were heading. He could just see the gears in the impossibly intelligent mind whirling away at top speed.

"Dumbledore was after one particular memory, was he not? He showed you his pool of memories to do with me… But there was one vital piece missing… and Slughorn had it. Correct me if I'm wrong, but Dumbledore asked you to retrieve it."

Voldemort's face darkened alarmingly with fury. "When Draco reported to me that you were badgering Professor Slughorn outside of class and him avoiding you, I thought there was no reason for me to worry."

Harry felt sick to his stomach.

"Funny, I can remember despite the decades that have passed, exactly what I said to him after the _Slug Club_." Voldemort smiled humourlessly, predatorily.

Harry hardly dared to breathe.

"_Just out of curiosity, Professor, I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces? I mean, for instance, isn't seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn't seven –?"_

He could not believe it when the Dark Lord repeated his teenage-hood words in one breath. The man had an incredible memory.

"You have seen that memory, Harry, haven't you? I can see that look in your eyes."

Voldemort paused.

"You recognise it."


End file.
